


Customs Charges

by bqdfantasy (seasoliloquy)



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Gen, M/M, crowley and customs charges, that's literally it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 09:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasoliloquy/pseuds/bqdfantasy
Summary: Crowley hadn't invented countries, borders, or imports. But hehadinvented customs charges.





	Customs Charges

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [fan_flashworks](https://fan_flashworks.dreamwidth.org) community on Dreamwidth. It's been like 84 years since I last wrote fanfic, but I'm back! I also now have a Dreamwidth over at [seasoliloquy](https://seasoliloquy.dreamwidth.org)! I'm doing a genprompt bingo, so feel free to prompt me with fandoms/characters [in the comments there](https://seasoliloquy.dreamwidth.org/1789.html). The footnotes should be fancy clickable ones, let me know if they don't work.
> 
> Enjoy!

Contrary to what some people thought, Crowley hadn't been the one to invent countries. Humans had handled that one all on their own.

He hadn't invented borders, either, or the idea of importing things from one country to another. Humans were resourceful things, when they needed to get something done.

What Crowley _had_ invented were customs charges. And right now, Crowley was vehemently cursing his past self for it.

"Twenty pence," he muttered, glaring at the scrap of paper in his hand. "Twenty bloody pence over the limit1."

The scrap of paper was red, with a Royal Mail logo at the top and an obnoxiously cheerful smiley face scrawled onto it by whatever git had tucked it into Crowley's letterbox. His flat didn't often get post, but this particular parcel was one he had been expecting to arrive _today_. He had even gone so far as to wait in his flat for it.

And now _this_. Crowley glared some more at the writing on the bit of paper that cheerfully informed him of the nearest sorting office that would let him pay for and collect his parcel. Well, at least it was nearby. He probably had time to collect it today and have it in time to meet Aziraphale in the evening.

Crowley turned the paper over to see how much it would cost him, and nearly dropped it2. 

~~~

1The limit in question, of course, was the lower limit below which customs charges didn't apply. Order something from another country below that limit, and your item would arrive free and clear.

Order something above that limit, even by twenty pence? There was a world of trouble in store for you.  
2Whilst significantly less than Crowley's average per-bottle expenditure on wine, it was still a great deal of money. Besides, it wasn't like Crowley actually _paid_ for the wine most of the time.

~~~

An hour later, Crowley stood in line at the post office, tapping one snakeskin boot3 impatiently against the peeling lino floor. He was fifth in the queue, behind a woman with a gaggle of children, an older man with thick glasses and a blank envelope, a man with an entire bag full of parcels, and an old dear at the very front of the line, who had only just shuffled up to the counter.

Twenty minutes ago, Crowley had been sixth in line.

He glared at the Christmas decorations draped garishly across the windows. As you might expect, Crowley hated Christmas on principle. But only on principle, generally. He actually quite enjoyed the idea of it, or rather of what it had become over the past few decades: consumerist, wasteful, and overall the same kind of coup for him as the M25 had been. That was what he told Aziraphale, anyway, and that was what he told himself. If Crowley tended to hand over a gift, and accept one himself, at the same time as claiming this, then neither of them mentioned it.

Decorations, though? The decorations he genuinely did despise.

Crowley checked his watch. Another five minutes had passed. The old dear at the front of the queue was now chattering away to the woman behind the counter about how little Kelly was doing so well at nursery, and oh, did she want to see the drawing Kelly's mother had sent her -

Crowley hissed in frustration, and made a sharp gesture with his wrist.

The old woman suddenly remembered a pressing need to buy brandy for the Christmas pudding, and hurried out of the post office. Crowley glared after her, just for good measure. The little shop next door didn't have brandy. He'd checked5.

The queue shuffled slowly forwards. Crowley took a deep breath, and set about mentally berating his past self once again for not only inventing customs charges, but also for inventing the concept of understaffing shops and services at critically busy times.

~~~

3Possibly not a boot. Who knew?4  
4Crowley did.  
5After the first fifteen minutes, Crowley had been entirely prepared to start day-drinking in public. If the shop had sold anything remotely alcoholic, he probably would have.^

~~~

After another half an hour, the man with a ridiculous number of parcels was done. Unfortunately, the man behind him, holding the blank envelope, had decided to ask the woman behind the counter to write the address on the envelope for him.

"It's my hands, you see," he explained. "Bit shaky these days, you know? Yes. So that's Llanfairpwll - no, two Ls at the beginning, a w after the p -"

Crowley closed his eyes behind his sunglasses. 

~~~

Finally, _finally_ , Crowley was at the front of the queue. He handed the woman the bit of paper, paid6, took his parcel, and left, somehow without anything at all slowing him down or getting in his way. Of course, there was no queue of people behind him to glare at. There seemed to be some unspoken law that queues only formed when you were about to join them, never at any other time.

Still, Crowley had his parcel now, and he had - he checked his watch - fifteen minutes before he was due to meet Aziraphale. Just enough time to get to the bookshop if he ignored the speed limit.

And so, three hours after the note was first put through his door, Crowley drove the Bentley up to the bookshop, decelerating gently from seventy to a stop. The double yellows obligingly vanished, and Crowley pulled in.

He got out, parcel in one hand, and pushed open the bookshop door. Aziraphale smiled at him from where he was decorating a tree, and Crowley scowled, shoving the parcel at the angel.

"Present," he said gruffly, pretending not to notice the way that Aziraphale's smile warmed. "Angel, you would not _believe_ the time I had getting this."

Aziraphale did, in fact, believe the trouble Crowley had had. He even sympathised with Crowley, after gently reminding him that it was really Crowley's own fault, since Crowley had been the one to invent customs charges in the first place.

Still, sitting in the back of the bookshop, wine in hand and watching Aziraphale exclaim over the vintage silver snuffbox Crowley had gone to so much trouble to order, the demon thought that maybe Christmas wasn't quite as bad as he always claimed (on principle, that was).

He still hated customs charges, though. Even if he had invented them.

~~~

6With a card that had somebody else's details on it. Crowley wasn't too bothered about whose; the card would vanish into thin air without a trace of any transactions as soon as he left the post office.


End file.
